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strawberrysnoopy · 4 months

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ACT ONE: The Photo Shoot, part one

prologue

summary of the series: for months, leon has been writhing in his bed dreaming of his friend's wife (you). he's been fighting the desperation for months until that one night you bring up a lingerie shoot you've done for a prestigious brand.

summary of this part: recalling the first time you and leon met, you've realized you've been poorly treated by your husband. leon is no different, in a toxic relationship with his wife, ada wong. as the seeds of resentment have begun to germinate, the desire for you grows like a brush fire nearby.

warnings: MENTIONS OF PUKE, BUT NOT ACTUAL PUKING, leon teaches you how to smoke (i don't wanna see no dumb stupid comments about "oh but leon hates smoking", well leon isn't disloyal but here we are), brief use of (adjective) girl (atta girl, good girl, silly girl), praise, mentions of misogyny (not from Leon ofc), awkward, tense ass convos, a fuckton of desc. and a little description, no sex (yet ;) ), cussing, descriptions of fucking, descriptions of masturbation, semi-public masturbation, almost caught masturbating, slight corruption kink (? if you squint), alcohol consumption, use of tobacco, smoking, implied sexual references, etc.

also a/n, writing this as of feb. 2nd, 2024: 60 notes?!!!!! i was writing this for my own personal pleasure but like...??!?! i got reblogged so many times?! im gagged, tysm you guys!!! making a playlist rn, so excited to release the soundtrack. if you see little random edits, i'm probably obsessing over the fic and trying to make it perfect lol/anticipate changes. i would also like to write I DO NOT CONDONE CHEATING! always communicate with your partner, discuss issues, etc. this fic is just a lil’ taboo type of fantasy, do NOT cheat on your partners.

The first time you met Leon was at a grocery store: two weeks before your husband would have any idea of his existence and one week before he had invited Leon and his wife, Ada, over for dinner. You were picking up a bottle of red wine for you and your husband under the guise of wanting something nice for date night. The reality would actually be you were buying it for yourself after your husband decides you're not worth his affections anymore, lazily mosey on over to the spare room, and pull out his phone to text other women. The wine would be something to drink to inebriate you while you watched a shitty re-run of a sitcom from the 90s. Maybe if you got lucky, Golden Girls was on.

He was only browsing, stumbling upon the liquor section and staying to look if there would be anything worthwhile. And there was. It was you. He knew he had to think of something witty, something cool people say, before you left and thought he was some creep staring at you because he saw a smidgen of your breasts in a magazine. "You're a famous model, right?" He asked. Oh, how stupid he felt. He was a chronic overthinker: thinking of every last terrible scenario, a trait he picked up after becoming an agent. This had certainly felt like one of the worst options he picked, especially with how you would-- You interrupted him. "Yeah, that's me." The subtle sweetness, the slight rasp in your voice was better than anything any street drug could offer with the amount of dopamine flooding into his brain: overloading every neuron, synapse, dendrite, and cell membrane in his body.

But for whatever reason, he stretched his hand outwards and lazily grinned towards you. "I'm Leon." "Nice to meet you. Well, I'd say my name but y'know..." He nodded in an awkward agreement before you could even finish your sentence, but not daring to go as far to interrupt you. He felt as if he already started off the conversation with a cumbersome beginning. "Right, right. So, that's your real name? I see a lot of models use stage names n' stuff like that." He adjusts his weight from one foot to the other, switching the hand holding his grocery basket from his right to his left. He felt so...awkward around you. Maybe it was the fact you were a famous model, or maybe it was the fact you were just so calm. The joke causes a soft chuckle to leave your lips and the mere look of a fleeting moment of bliss to cross over your features makes his knees turn into gelatin. Those nerves solidify into stone when the overwhelming sense of guilt hits him like a tidal wave but allows it to wash over him for the sake of continuing the conversation.

"Yeah, just my regular name. I'm not that creative outside of modeling. Usually the photographers do the thinking and the creative processes for me." He chuckled, shaking his head and barely moving himself a little closer. Leon wanted to sink in that gentle, warm, and soft presence you carried around with you. Your aura felt comforting: like a hug after a tough day: it had felt so much more different than his wife. True, Ada could be affectionate but that's usually only after something good has happened to her or Leon was her last resort of attention. He really hated how much he would act like an obedient dog, awaiting her arrival home, coming back to her after she's treated him like dirt. You? You felt so goddamn altruistic and considerate. And he's only known you for three minutes.

You notice he's gone silent and you're silently hoping he thought you were cool. Cool. Like a teenager trying to fit in. You silently cringe at yourself until he smiles at you, almost like he's signaling you to continue the conversation. You can't think of any conversation starters. And you're a model for gods sake. You're usually so outgoing and social with other people but now it's like a cat came by and stole your voice box. Thankfully, he takes over that portion for you. "Buying wine?" He knew it was dry as all hell but he wanted to steer the conversation away from him being a fan of your modeling gigs. No, he just wanted to talk to you and discover what you were like behind the camera. (Okay, and maybe he wanted to see if you'd flirt with him.) "Yup. But I'm just buying wine for..." You paused, about to say 'for me and my husband' but your throat becomes dry whenever you feel like you're about to announce it to him. "...Myself."

He smiles. He likes that you're awkward in real life. The fact made you feel more real, like you weren't just some sexy model with expensive tastes and a bratty attitude. You were a person like anyone else.

"Right. Me too, just uh...just browsing." You nod, fidgeting anxiously with the sleeves of the coat you decided to toss on last minute before leaving the house.

The conversation went on to end when you eventually realized you would be home late. Although you thought that worrying your husband a little would be the thing that reignited the spark in your marriage, you knew that punctuality was a habit you'd like to upkeep. That, and you also knew if you talked to this handsome stranger for longer, you'd cheat on your husband. That night, Leon had fallen asleep to the thought of you for the first time. Soft little visions of pressing his lips against yours, caressing your cheek softly and whispering sweet nothings into your ear, etc, etc, cheesy lovey dovey bullshit. So much more different than the truly filthy thoughts he had about you nowadays. You're torn from your conversation with your friends when you make eye contact with him. You can practically feel his eyes travel from the hair at the highest point on your head to the very last bit of your black, leathery heels with perfect pretty pearls embellished on the pump. For a moment, you feel like you're trapped in some type of horny labyrinth while you stare longingly at him.

He's ripped out of his own longing by the feeling of your husband's hand slapping his back. Ada sat beside Leon with her arm protectively wrapped around his bicep. You felt as if the gesture were a signal to everyone at the party that Leon belonged to her. He was under her control, nobody else's. Or maybe the protective message was for her husband, as if he was an unruly friend to her husband. And you could agree with that. You fell in love with your husband because he was wild and care-free but after the diamond ring was slipped onto your ring finger, you realized he was also carefree in the sense that hurt you: talking to other women behind your back, and leaving for days at a time only to come back inebriated. But you stood by his side, no matter what. You hated how you felt like a doormat but you didn't know what else to do besides stay married and play the role of an oblivious wife while your husband fucks other women in various positions. In a way, you and Leon sat in the same loveless boat. Who knew when that same boat would be shaking from the violence of the both of you fucking, clothing pulled out and to the side instead of being fully taken off. Your thoughts become interrupted by an unmistakably handsome voice.

"Hey."

You feel a hand being placed upon your lower back except it's so much more different than your husband's. The palms were rough, callouses inside the nooks and crannies, and pulsing veins make you all dizzy if you thought about it for too long. His voice was dampened with some undertone of lust, his fingers prodding into the skin of your sides. He's always been a little too handsy for a man that's supposed to happily married. But you always figured touch was how he communicates: touch. But he's never touchy with your husband. Or any of your friends. And he missed you? Sure, your're friends due to the fact your husband was friends with Leon. (Even though you met him first, but I digress.) The simple phrase had your mind reeling, cheeks flushed red due to the hidden intimacy of it all. His wife shoots him a look and his hand immediately retreats back to his side, fighting the urge to palm the engorged erection struggling against the seam of his boxers. "Haven't seen you in so long, hm? Thought you disappeared on me for a minute." He's holding his facade of being totally and irrevocably in love with Ada up and steady. Like he had no feelings for you other than being friends.

"Of course not." You murmur, feeling a hearty chuckle reverberate from his chest. He takes his index finger and his thumb and gently swiping it against your chin.

"Atta girl." And of course, with how hoarse his voice is, your panties are instantly puddled with a thick pool of arousal. You hate his stupid, thick, sexy, and deep voice. You especially hate his voice whenever you imagine him degrading and praising you whenever your husband was away and you just happened to have your hand down your underwear, playing with your clit to ease the throbbing impulses you felt for Leon. He gives your back a single pat before moving back to stand beside his wife. You really hate that you feel jealousy flare like wildfire within you, but you brush it off.

Everyone would eventually be drawn to the several dining tables that were arranged in a group and had golden candlesticks and smooth white tablecloths on top. Once you are seated, you observe that Leon appears to be striving extra hard to guarantee his place beside you. He looks right at you for a brief moment. And only then can you see, just a hint of thirst sprouting in his eyes, before he glances away from you and gives Ada a quick smile while patting her thigh.

It's only a few minutes before Leon decides to break the awkward silence.

"How's that modeling gig going?" You nod, gulping down way too much champagne.

"Good, been going good. Have to admit it gets a little boring posing in front of the camera after a while but can't bite the hand that pays you, right?" You joke, and the table laughs with some sense of jealousy. "Nice to hear. What was your latest shoot?" He asked, leaning forward in a sudden rush of intrigue. Then those words pass your lips. Words he had never anticipated, even in his wildest guess (oddly.)

"A lingerie shoot. For Chanel." The table goes quiet. And everyone, including your dumb-ass husband, look at you. Someone (Ada) clears their throat in the dining room, hinting at you to elaborate and it's almost like you suddenly developed to ability to hear from light years away.

Leon, who had just finally got his goddamn boner under control feels his cock twitch back to life, fully hard instead of a semi this time. And correct him if he's wrong, but he starts to feel pre-cum smearing his dress pants. He's thankful he chose the black slacks instead of his lighter colored ones otherwise this would be downright humiliating.

"Sorry, um...I did an intimates photo-shoot for Chanel a few weeks ago for their new line of clothing." That seems to help lighten the mood a lot more because everyone goes back to their conversation with their respective friends, the embarrassing "confession" from you immediately leaving their minds. "The theme was Overtime. Like, staying later in the office with my shirt unbuttoned and stuff. Nothing that interesting."

The table simultaneously nodded, Leon going as far to excuse himself for a cigarette.

"If you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go have a smoke." Leon scoots out from his seat, heading towards the upstairs balcony to take care of business. Asshole, leaving me with his mean ass wife.

You decide to join him outside.

The air had finally gotten too tense, felt too judgmental for your taste. Scampering outside, you're met with the sight of Leon smoking a cigarette outside. That's odd: you've usually pegged him to be the straight-laced, no-nonsense type of man yet here he was, smoking a cigarette while leaning against the balustrade of their friend's top floor home. At the sound of the balcony door opening, he turns his head to see what you're doing out here. His eyes scan you, almost like he would while he's in combat but it's more or less to get another glimpse of the outfit you were wearing tonight. Okay, and maybe he wanted to commit the sight of you to memory.

"You alright?" He asked, trying his best to look straight forward when you step closer and cross your arms over the balustrade.

"M'fine, just needed a minute of fresh air, I think." When you sit beside Leon, there's a few things you notice. The first was his outfit. A white button-up that usually would be covered by his black suit jacket, though he left it behind on his chair in the dining room. There's also mentioning his blacks slacks, fitting his muscular thighs a bit tight but loose enough so they're comfortable. Then there's the dress shoes, ones he wore at his wedding due to how overly formal they looked. Maybe he wanted to get some more use out of them? Who knows.

"What about you? Why are you out here?" You decided to be the one to take the reigns since the air outside had become incredibly awkward as well. "Same. Thought I'd take a minute of fresh air, you know?" The second thing you notice about Leon is how much he calms you. More importantly, how much you never noticed that you were anxious when you were around others. He had this aura of relaxing or maybe you were just buzzed, who knows that either? Maybe it's the cigarette, speaking of...

"I haven't smoked since college. Cigarettes, I mean. Don't think I even know how to do it anymore." The confession makes his head tilt to the side, now taking more of an interest in the conversation than before. He grinned wolfishly, taking your chin in one of his thick and strong hands and pulling your head forward. For a second, you could almost be dumb enough to think he'd be moving in for a kiss. Of course not. You'd never be that lucky. "Open f'me, sweetheart." And like an obedient puppy, you opened your mouth just enough so your pretty pink-shaded lips could be parted. He placed the cigarette on your lip, the moisture making the filter stay in your mouth alongside his index and middle finger holding it up, thumb brushing your chin. Little hazes of grey smoke dance along your tongue without even taking a sip of the smoke yet, your lips trembling with a lustful agony. "Now close your mouth..." He whispered, his damp and hot and horny breath hitting your ear like an affectionate declaration of love. "And inhale."

You close your lips around the cigarette, faintly tasting the flavor of him where he had sucked on the cigarette. You got notes of citrus, rum or some expensive, top-shelf label of whiskey he used to help quell the pain he experienced on grueling missions, tobacco, and maybe even the slightest hint of his wife's lipstick. Chanel's Rogue Allure, if you had to guess correctly. "...Now hold it..."

You held it. "Silly girl." He whispered, pulling the cigarette away from your lips while you slowly exhaled the rest of the smoke you've been holding in your mouth and then some. You can't tell if it's because of the alcohol, Leon's presence, or your mere anxiety but you begin to feel dizzy. Thankfully Leon seems to swoop in with his questions to keep your head in the game. Bless him.

"Why'd you need a minute, huh?"

For a minute there, you didn't know how to respond. Looking down at the leathery pumps you chose for the evening, you begin to wonder why you even chose them instead of answering his question. But you answered him. Eventually.

"I'm just tired. This whole night just seems a bit…” You gesture to the party in the background. “Fake. I don’t want to be here."

He hummed in agreement, but it felt like more of a signal for you to keep going. "I'm also just terrible at making conversation. Especially when it's awkward and silent."

His eyes flicker down to the pumps he'd already stared at tonight, not finding an interest in them anymore than your own body. He tucked his lip between his teeth, pulling the pink flesh away from his mouth before he spoke up again. "You're not that bad, you know? I think you're pretty good. How about this?" He pauses. Then a beat passes.

"Tell me something true. Tell me something you wouldn't brag to anyone about." He moved his cigarette to rest on the balustrade instead of the space between his fingers. "Something that's yours...and only yours."

You look at Leon with wide eyes, mouth agape as you struggle to answer his question. Your eyes rake down his face from the space between his eyebrows to his parted, pink lips: just a little chapped from the cold chill of the night air. You wanted to kiss him. All of those times you've had him over for dinner, all of those times you've spent with your hand down your panties while your husband was away on "business": dreaming of his best friend, Leon, and god, all of those times you thought about throwing caution to the wind and leaning in to press your lips against his: the sum of all of those moments had you quivering for more.

But you'd never cheat. You have a reputation. You have a husband that gifted you the pretty diamond ring on your finger. But how did it always feel so...impossible? Like you couldn't live another day if you weren't able to fuck Leon like a rabid dog in heat. But he was staring at you, almost as if his eyes were laser beams and searing holes into your skin: you had to answer.

"I don't know what I could tell you that's only mine." You chew on your lip. "Huh. How about..."

How about the fact I wanna kiss you? I wish it was you I was in bed with rather than my stupid, cheating husband? The fact you are so much hotter than him?

"I hate being a trophy." And that brings the biggest grin on Leon's face. A massive shit-eating grin. Leon had gone stir crazy. He wanted to peel your entire being open, see all of the nooks and crannies of your soul and devour it whole. But now wasn't the time to scare you away: even if he wanted to fuck you, you were still a friend to him. So he calmed down. "I can't say that's too surprising. I mean, who would? Being able to be pretty and have money being tossed at you is nice until you want something deeper. Then it seems like one of the only things that are scarce in your life."

You nod, letting out a breath of consolation. "That's exactly how I feel. Like my only purpose is to sit still, look pretty, serve my husband, and be a hole when he needs it."

His eyes become downcast, looking down at the garden on the ground level of the restaurant. "I get what you mean." The moment was interrupted by a waiter peeking out on the two of you: head poked outside of the door that lead to the outside area. He pulls his hand away from your soft skin and back to his side, sighing wistfully that tonight wouldn't be the night he gets to act on his desires for you. Damn it all to hell.

"You should head back. I'll be back, yeah?" You nod and within a few seconds, you've returned to your spot at the dinner table. He sighs, hand slipping down to palm at his erection. Fuck. Can't go back like this.

Just resist. You're just another woman. You have a husband, He thinks to himself, I'm married to a lovely woman. I am a faithful husband. The silent mantra he practices on himself works about as well as a band-aid on a bullet hole. Resist. God, but you looked so pretty tonight. That cute jewelry set you wore with your little black dress? Hot. The smoothness of your skin?

Resist.

But he can't stop picturing you on your knees in front of him, sucking on his cock. The sounds your perfect, wet mouth would make. How he'd ease himself down your throat. How you'd whine.

Resist.

Or how about when he could be fucking his cock into your tight, wet, and warm cunt? The tip of his dick kissing your cervix? Or what about the positions he could force your body into? Like having his arm around your throat, bicep curling into your mouth to muffle your moans from his wife hearing? Or how one of his hands would be gripping your hips while he needily plowed into your pussy, while you begged him to let up. Resist.

Resist.

Fuck it.

In the few moments after he's excused himself from you, he's already rushing to the upstairs bathroom of the restaurant: thanking the holy beings above for making it a single stall bathroom for his jerking pleasure. He hastily unbuckles his belt with one hand, other hand impulsively opening Twitter as a first resort to find some fashion fanatic post about the slutty lingerie photo-shoot you did for Chanel. Alas, you're still a bit of an undiscovered goddess in the modeling industry at the moment: so Google is his next best option. He pulls out his half-hard but hardening cock from his jeans before he can even find your photo-shoot and gives it a quick few pumps to ease the throbbing that's starting to build up in his loins. Eventually, he finds it. Thank fucking god because the creativity for his fantasies are beginning to run quite dry. And instantly he's grunting and groaning while he strokes his cock and scrolls through the multiple scandalous photos the photographers took of you.

"Fuck." He winces in pleasurable agony as he stares at quite possibly his favorite photo of you. The photo was in black and white: theme being "Overtime" like you mentioned. The white button up shirt was undone, revealing you had nothing on underneath, and allowed for the side of your perfect breasts to be revealed. If he squinted just a little harder, he could see your puffy nipples threatening to peek out of the shirt. He tried squinting a little harder to see your nipples a little easier. And oh my god. You have piercings?! He almost shot his entire load on the spot. God, he needed to fuck you. And hard. He groans as he feel himself get closer to orgasm. Closer, and closer, until--

"Leon?"

Fuck. It was you. God, of course you're so goddamn sweet, checking up on him to make sure he's okay. He didn't dare stop stroking himself off, especially not when he's got jerk-worthy material of you almost catching him. That's also not mentioning the soft intonations of your almost innocent voice right there. He's trying not to cum too quick, wanting to savor those images for as long as he could but he also realized his wife might start asking some questions and she wouldn't be on the other side of the door if she came upstairs. "F-fuck, yeah?" He responded after much too long of hearing your sweet voice. "Did you need something?" "Are you okay? I just got worried when you left. You've been gone for like..." You check your wristwatch: a classic and dainty Timex from the 80s with a blank band that wrapped around your wrist snugly.

"Fifteen minutes. Do you need water? Ibuprofen?" He shakes his head as if you could see him while he continues to jerk himself off, hand swirling in a sort of cranking motion as he tries to work his cock to orgasm. But his pre-cum isn't coming out fast enough, not as fast as the pumping motions his hand was doing right now, so he spits in his hand before bringing his palm back down to his cock and lathering his dick in spit. You believe him enough to think he might be getting ready to vomit.

"Nah, jus'...ngh, drank too much, I think." Please keep talking, He selfishly thinks to himself. "Oh, okay. Well, if you need anything, just text me?" He nodded, grunting out a thank you while he continues to dream of ruthlessly fucking you until you're embedded into his mattress. He wants you. He needs you. He feels himself get a little closer until he finally releases into his fist. His hot and sticky cum ran down his palm while the waves of post-orgasmic bliss and post-nut clarity simultaneously moved together as one. For a few minutes, he's panting like a rabid dog in heat until his breath eventually stills and he's able to walk downstairs and look his wife in the face while giving her the impression that he definitely didn't just masturbate to his best friend's wife. When he sits down at the table, the first person he makes eye contact with is you. You smile at him, mouthing a "you okay?" because, of course, you're still worried about him being sick. He nods with a grin peeled onto his face. Because he came to the sound of your voice. And you didn't have a fucking clue.

credits: snoopy divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more heart divider by @saradika-graphics

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fruchtfleisch-art · 22 days

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kirashino in killer queen's pov

You know what, I almost didn't do this one, thinking I had nothing interesting to say, but it turned out to be the microfic I had the most fun writing. Fittingly, this is also going to be the last microfic for this round! Thanks so much to everyone who sent in suggestions. I'm going to get back to editing some longer stuff, and hopefully posting more art soon! ---

This is the way of things. First there was one: Kira. Then another: Killer Queen.

Kira is a man with a man’s heart, a man’s appetites, a man’s joys and sorrows and petty tantrums. He keeps a house, goes to work, eats and sleeps and shits and talks sweetly to people he would happily feed feet first into a wood chipper. When his urges bubble up, hissing and spitting like hot milk over the lip of a sauce pan, that is when Killer Queen comes forward.

Killer Queen is a tool. Since it first emerged from Kira some fifteen-odd years ago, it has not changed in any fundamental way: smooth, vaguely feline in form, adorned in skulls and samurai swords, symbols it does not comprehend the full meaning of.

Killer Queen’s primary task is of separation. Separating body from person, limb from body, hand from limb, all without damaging them too much. And when Kira is finished with these disparate parts, when they begin to leak and sweat and stink of corruption, Killer Queen devours them, leaving nothing behind. That is what it does.

There are exceptions, of course, times when Killer Queen is needed for other purposes. The destruction of the snotty-nosed child whose stand swarmed them like fleas. The schoolboy who had pinned Sheer Heart Attack in place, but more importantly, stung Kira with his words, sending Killer Queen lashing out, cat-quick. Kira himself, forcing Killer Queen’s hand to sever his own, an action as painful as forcing blood to pump backwards.

Sometimes, rarely, when Kira is sunk deep into the dark well of a dream, Killer Queen is called forth for no apparent purpose at all.

It is theorized by some that deep in the mazelike folds of the brain, neurons fire almost at random, tiny messengers ignorant of the messages they carry. These cells have no comprehension of their importance, and yet the slightest scratch in cortex can render a man blind, deaf, or amnesiac, unable to remember what he had for breakfast or the face of his beloved grandmother. The world outside the body is not, a place of objective fact, but utter darkness, illuminated only by the scant and scattered efforts of a few million thready gray tendrils.

Such is the same with Killer Queen. It does not emerge because it wants to, but because it is called. The higher purpose behind the summons eludes it entirely. It does not perceive time away from the world as anything other than absence; it does not long to feel sunlight on its face, or to fight, or to kill.

Kira asks, Killer Queen answers. That’s the way of things.

On this night, Killer Queen hangs in the air like a haze, moonlight limning the pale curves and angles of its body. Its arms hang loosely at its sides. This is not Kira’s bedroom, but some other place, a place he has been spending most of his time in the last month or so. There is nothing to destroy in this room. Kira is-

a cat, a most beautiful tomcat with a silky soft coat, with lovely whiskers arranged just so, with eyes like deep blue pools, and he is cradled in the arms of a woman as she strokes his head, his cheeks, his chest. He does not understand what she is saying, but the words are soft, and when he nibbles on her finger she coos, delighted. Saliva wells from the corners of his mouth and dangles from his chin in long pearly strings.

- deeply asleep, eyelids twitching. His face is different, but his habits are the same. His dreams are the same.

The woman, whose name does not matter, because she will be dead soon, is in the room too. She’s curled up like a pillbug next to Kira, face buried in the pillows. When he is awake, Kira wants very badly to strangle her, but he is not awake, so Killer Queen does nothing.

Outside, insects buzz and frogs peep. The dim orange light of the streetlamp flickers, throwing strange shadows over the sleepers. Devoid of intent, Killer Queen can only watch. Its unblinking eyes do not waver, its preternaturally muscular frame does not grow tired. Its focus is absolute.

It watches the woman stir and sit up, raise her arms in a stretch. It watches her leave the room, then come back with a glass of water. It watches her take a sip and place the glass on the nightstand, before sitting down on the side of the bed.

Kira sighs. The woman turns. She runs a hand through his hair, the movement slow and hesitant at first, until he shifts closer with a soft groan of contentment. His heart rate slows, his breathing steadies.

The woman says something to him, but it does not matter what, exactly, the words are. She sits and pets him, and gradually a soft noise begins to permeate the room, a noise only audible to the one person not awake to hear it. Kira-

knows her, this woman. This voice, this touch, the loose strand of reddish-brown hair tickling his fur, all are familiar. He stretches up to touch his nose to her nose, blinking at her, greeting her. His tiny pink tongue darts out to taste her. She laughs, and holds him close, and he feels content.

-is dead to the world, lost in his own private reverie.

The noise is like the idling engine of a well maintained motorcycle, or the deep-voiced treadle of an elephantine sewing machine, or the stuttering whirl and hum of a serpentine belt, spinning and spinning and spinning. It is like all of those things and none of those things.

Kira is the man, and Killer Queen is his tool, nothing more, nothing less. Nonetheless, tonight it purrs.

#jjba #kira yoshikage #shinobu kawajiri #killer queen jojo #kirashino #love thinking of stands not as a person but a process... i can't go all specbio on them so this is my compromise #[points at peristaltic motion of the gut] stand. [points at blink reflex] stand. [points at the blind spot you have for your nose] sta

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orchestrated-haunting · 4 months

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Random dnd headcannons I had for some characters of the epic cycle because I just had neurons activate. This is gonna be long so they’re mostly under the cut.

Odysseus would be the DM, making riddles and puzzles for the party that he thinks is pretty easy to solve, but the party still spends the entire session trying to solve it.

He likes to fuck around with everyone. Has a doppelgänger infiltrated the party? Yeah probably. Has someone been following the party? Most likely. The party has to be on their toes at all times.

Odysseus plans far in advance for his sessions and somehow (like every dnd party does) the party goes in the completely opposite direction, so Odysseus is improving the majority of the sessions, but thanks to his storytelling abilities literally no one can tell unless Odysseus expresses how much he’s flying by the seat of his pants.

Achilles would prefer to play martial classes like fighter or barbarian. It’s not that he doesn’t like the spell casting classes, he just prefers to be on the front line. Give him a lvl 20 fighter and that man will go HAM.

He falls head over heels for every NPC he meets. He wants to smooch every single one. The rest of the party just sigh at his antics.

He and doors hate each other (he spent like 5 turns trying to open a locked door before he eventually got pissed off and just broke it down).

Patroclus prefers tanky classes that can also support the others so cleric and paladin are the classes he tends to play.

That being said he still loves to do damage. His main build is almost always a battle cleric so he can still heal but leave the majority of it to someone who is exclusively a healer.

Hector, man, he’d likely multiclass between something that’s support but also a martial class. I could see him playing a Paladin build the most often.

I think he tried to play a full caster class once and decided there was just to many things to keep on top of for himself, but he still enjoyed how useful spells are so he doesn’t mind a half caster class.

And while the majority of the party are probably chaotic neutral, he plays almost exclusively lawful characters. His characters almost always have a strict set of morals and a code that they follow.

I could see Paris playing caster classes. Give him any charisma caster, warlock, bard, etc. and he is having the time of his life.

Like Achilles I think he would try and romance so many NPCs, and boy does he use that charisma stat to its full potential. If he’s a bard you better assume he’s also using bardic inspiration on himself.

Penthesilea and Achilles are always trying to one up each other. She almost exclusively plays barbarians and if Achilles is playing one as well they WILL keep a kill count to see who ends up having killed the most by the end of the campaign.

She’s the starter of the tavern brawls, to which Achilles and Patroclus gladly join in. She’s also the one who is always the test dummy if the party is afraid of traps or failing a puzzle.

“What if it’s trapped??”

“I open the door.”

“Take 2d6 fire damage.”

At first you’d think Circe would play spellcasting classes but she does enough of that as is she’d want to do something completely opposite like a rouge. She’d love that.

I can see her giggling after pick pocketing one of the other party members while she just waits for them to figure it out. She’s a menace in a different way than either Achilles of Paris.

She’s not trying to romance any NPCs if she wanted to romance someone she’d just choose a real person. But boy her characters have sticky fingers.

#the epic cycle #homer’s illiad #homer’s odyssey #homeric epics #odysseus #achilles #hector of troy #paris of troy #penthesilea #circe #orchestrated writing

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anonymousewrites · 7 months

Text

Portal to My Heart (Book 1.5) Chapter Fourteen

Loki x Reader

Chapter Fourteen: In the Streets

Summary: (Y/N) and Thor get some allies, and a plan comes together.

“The sun’s going down. It’s getting really low.” Thor kept repeating the phrase to Bruce as he ushered him through the Sakaar streets. “The sun’s getting low.”

“Thor, it’s bad enough that we’re lost. Stop saying that or I make a portal right to the Grandmaster and push you through,” said (Y/N) sharply.

“We need him to stay calm,” said Thor.

“Calm? I’m on an alien planet,” said Bruce.

“You get used to it,” said (Y/N), shrugging.

“I’ve only been on one,” said Bruce urgently.

“I’ve been on three,” said (Y/N).

“It’s a new experience,” said Thor in encouragement.

Bruce groaned. “My neurons, they’re firing faster than my brain can handle the information. The whole thing is totally different this time. In the past, I always felt like Hulk and I each had a hand on the wheel. But this time, it’s like he had the keys to the car, and I was locked in the trunk…”

“You’re back now. That’s all that matters,” said Thor.

“No, that’s not what matters!” exclaimed Bruce. “What I’m trying to tell you is that if I turn into the Hulk again, Banner may never come back.”

“That sucks,” said (Y/N), not sarcastic for once. It would be terrible to never have control of your own body again. (Y/N) was all about freedom.

“And we’re stranded on a planet that is designed to stress me out!” continued Bruce, spiraling.

“I’m gonna figure out a way to get us home,” said Thor.

“Thank you,” said Bruce in relief.

“Not your home, though. Asgard. My home,” said Thor.

“What?” said Bruce.

(Y/N) shrugged. She had lived there for years. It was pretty much her home, too, so she was with Thor.

“Listen, my people are in great danger,” said Thor. “You, (Y/N), and I have to fight this really powerful being…who also happens to be my sister.”

Bruce made a face. “Okay, that is so wrong on so many—I don’t want to fight your sister. That’s a family issue.”

“She’s terrible, though, don’t feel bad,” said (Y/N) encouragingly.

“I don’t care what she is,” said Bruce. “I’m not fighting anymore beings. I’m sick of it.”

“What?” said Thor.

“I just told you. If I turn into the Hulk, I am never gonna come back again,” said Bruce.

“Fair concern,” admitted (Y/N).

“Yeah, and he doesn’t care,” said Bruce.

“No, no. I’m putting together a team,” said Thor. “The Hulk is the fire.”

“Wait, you’re just using me to get to the Hulk,” said Bruce dejectedly.

“What? No,” denied Thor in a horrible attempt of a lie.

“It’s gross,” said Bruce. “You don’t care about me. You’re not my friend.”

(Y/N) groaned in annoyance. She didn’t have time for couples’ therapy. She needed a way off this planet.

“No, I don’t even care about the Hulk,” said Thor, lying through his teeth. “He’s all like ‘Smash, smash, smash!’ I prefer you.”

“…Thanks,” said Bruce.

“…But if I’m being honest, when it comes to fighting evil beings, he is very powerful and useful,” said Thor.

Great tact, thought (Y/N), rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, Banner’s powerful and useful, too,” said Bruce sullenly.

“Is he thought?” asked Thor.

“How many PhDs does Hulk have? Zero. How many PhDs does Banner have? Seven,” said Bruce.

“Fine, you don’t have to fight anyone,” sighed Thor. “But we’re in danger here, so we have to move.”

“Finally,” said (Y/N).

Thor grabbed a random cloth he found and wrapped it around his head.

“What’re you doing?” sighed (Y/N).

“I need a disguise. I’m a fugitive,” said Thor. “You should disguise yourself, too.”

“None of these people really know my face. They’re mostly looking for you and the big guy,” said (Y/N), shrugging.

“I’ll be Tony Stark!” said Bruce, putting on the glasses he found in his pocket.

“What?” said Thor.

“Yeah. Tony and the Gypsy,” said Bruce.

“No, no, you’re not Tony. You’re Bruce. Bruce Banner,” said Thor.

“Then why’d you dress me up like Tony?” asked Bruce.

“You were naked, buddy,” said (Y/N).

“…Okay, I’ll give you that,” said Bruce.

“Why are you being so weird?” asked Thor as Bruce fidgeted.

Bruce glared at him. “I don’t know. Maybe the fact that I was trapped for two years inside of a monster made me a little weird!” One of his veins throbbed green, and his voice deepened.

(Y/N) and Thor backed off.

“Okay, okay, let’s just take a deep breath and get going,” said (Y/N) quickly, and Thor nodded, patting Bruce gently.

“Listen, we’re gonna get to Asgard, and you’re never gonna have to think of the Hulk ever again,” said Thor.

They stepped into the street, and Bruce was promptly hit in the face by green powder as the people celebrated their champion to draw him out. Masks and costumes lined the parade. Every sight Bruce’s eyes landed on showed Hulk. He was even swept up in the crowd.

“Dammit,” muttered (Y/N), wading into the people with Thor to find him.

“Banner! Banner?” called Thor as he pushed through and (Y/N) followed.

They grabbed the scientist before he was hit by a humanoid he bumped into. This was one fiasco after another. (Y/N)’s hands curled into fists in preparation of a fight, nut a disk in the humanoid’s neck buzzed, and they keeled over.

Valkyrie was revealed behind them, hands on her hips.

“Hi,” said Thor awkwardly.

“Thanks,” said (Y/N).

“Hi,” said Valkyrie. She glanced at (Y/N). “I don’t think this was your plan.”

“Hulk broke our ship,” huffed (Y/N).

“What are you doing here?” asked Thor.

Valkyrie ignored him and rolled her eyes. “Come on.” She turned and walked away from the crowd.

(Y/N) wasn’t going to argue with her. She didn’t seem like she was going to take them in. She wasn’t the type to go for trickery. She’d probably just kick their asses if she needed to. Valkyrie led them into a building as Bruce stared at wonder.

“Who is she? What are those lines around her eyes? Are those people she’s killed? She’s so beautiful and strong and courageous,” rambled Bruce. (Y/N) nodded in emphatic agreement at the final statement.

“Who is this guy?” asked Valkyrie.

“I’m Bruce.”

“I feel like I know you,” she said.

“I feel like I know you too,” said Bruce.

Valkyrie took the three to her apartment door and turned around to face them before opening it. “Look.” Her voice was more serious than (Y/N) had ever heard. “I’ve spent years in a haze, trying to forget my past. Sakaar seemed like the best place to drink and forget, and to die one day.”

“I was thinking that you drink too much, and that probably was going to kill you,” admitted Thor.

“I don’t plan to stop drinking,” said Valkyrie.

“We should go out for drinks sometime,” said (Y/N).

“Yeah, sure. I can get you drunk and get all the details about your princely boyfriend to blackmail him,” said Valkyrie.

“…Everyone knows everything he’s done,” said (Y/N). Then, almost an afterthought, she added, “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

Thor cleared his throat. “Maybe save the drinking and forgetting for another time.”

“Actually, I don’t want to forget,” said Valkyrie. She cleared her throat. “I can’t turn away anymore…so if I’m gonna die, well, it may as well be driving my sword through the heart of that murderous hag.”

“Good,” said Thor.

“Yeah,” said Bruce.

“Love it,” said (Y/N).

“So, I’m saying that I wanna be on the team,” said Valkyrie. “Has it got a name?”

“Yeah, it’s called the…Revengers,” said Thor, making it up on the spot.

“Revengers?” Valkyrie was unimpressed.

“That’s a stupid name,” said (Y/N).

“It’s because I’m getting revenge. You’re getting revenge…” He looked at Bruce and (Y/N). “Do you want revenge?”

“Sure,” said (Y/N) with a shrug.

“I’m undecided,” said Bruce.

“Okay,” said Thor proudly.

“Also, I’ve got a peace offering,” said Valkyrie. She opened her apartment door, and it slid up.

Loki was chained to a seat in the middle of the room. “Surprise~,” he said monotonously.

�� (Y/N) grinned and couldn’t help a chuckle as she and the rest walked in. For one, it was entertaining to see him so sullen in his binds. For another, laughing distracted her from how attractive he looked tied up.( Hey, (Y/N) was up for any role, and she suspected Loki would be, too, so the thoughts were bound to come).

Thor threw a bottle at him, and it bounced off him.

“Ow,” said Loki, deadpan.

“Just had to be sure…” said Thor.

Loki smirked when Bruce sidled in nervously. “Hello, Bruce.”

“So, last time I saw you, you were trying to kill everybody,” said Bruce hesitantly. “Where are you these days?”

“It varies from moment to moment,” said Loki, successfully scaring Bruce.

(Y/N) patted his shoulder. “Relax.” She gave Loki a look. “He’ll be on his best behavior here, won’t he?” Loki shrugged in his chains. (Y/N) rolled her eyes. “He knows he has to be or he’s not getting out of those chains.”

“You’d abandon me? How unkind, my dear advisor,” said Loki.

“Don’t try to flatter me,” said (Y/N) with a smirk. “You know your silver tongue doesn’t work on me.”

“Are we sure?” said Loki with a smirk.

Bruce stared in bewilderment as the woman who had been kidnapped by Loki confidently flirted with him and he flirted back. It was extremely disconcerting.

“Is that a Dragonfang?” said Thor excitedly, picking up a weapon on a nightstand.

“It is,” said Valkyrie.

“This is the famed sword of the Valkyrie,” said Thor, holding it reverently.

Valkyrie smirked in amusement and got to business. “Sakaar and Asgard are about as far apart as any two known systems.” She walked by Loki, and he had the puppy-eyes on and gazed towards her and then (Y/N) in hopes someone would let him out. No one went to him. “Our best bet is the wormhole just outside the city limits. Refuel on Xandar, and we can be back on Asgard in…eighteen months.”

“Nope. We are going through the big one.” Thor gestured to the wormhole that shone brightly in the sky, wide and formidable.

“The Devil’s Anus?” said Valkyrie incredulously.

“I bet the Grandmaster came up with that,” remarked (Y/N).

“Anus? Wait, wait, wait. Whose Anus?” said Bruce.

“For the record, I didn’t know it was called that when I picked it,” said Thor.

“That looks like a collapsing neutron star inside of an Einstein-Rosen Bridge,” said Bruce in amazement.

“We need another ship,” said Valkyrie, picking up a bottle of alcohol. “That would tear mine to pieces.” She took a swig.

“She’s right. We need one that can withstand the geodetic strain from the singularity,” said Thor.

Jane definitely taught him that, thought (Y/N).

“And has an offline power steering system that could also function without an onboard computer,” said Bruce.

“And we need one with cupholders because we’re gonna die,” said Valkyrie cheerfully. “So, drinks!”

“Do I know you? I feel like I know you,” said Bruce.

“I feel like I know you, too. It’s weird,” said Valkyrie.

“What do you say?” said Thor. “Uncharted metagalactic travel through a volatile cosmic gateway. Talk about an adventure.”

“We need a ship,” said Bruce, onboard with the idea.

“There are one or two ships,” said Valkyrie. “Absolute top of the line models—”

“I don’t mean to impose,” interrupted Loki.

Valkyrie threw her empty bottle at the wall next to his head, and it shattered. Loki spoke again slowly.

“The Grandmaster has a great many ships,” said Loki.

(Y/N) snapped her fingers. “Oh, yeah, and we got into the system. If we can get into the hangar, I can get us a ship.”

“Yes, and I can get us to the hangar,” said Loki. “I may have taken the security access codes to the building.”

“And suddenly you’re overcome with an urge to do the right thing?” Valkyrie didn’t believe it.

“Heavens, no,” said Loki with a smirk. But I need a way to get out of these binds to look after (Y/N). “I’ve run out of favor with the Grandmaster, and in exchange for getting you to the ship, I am asking for safe passage through the Anus.”

“You’re telling us you can get us access into the garage without setting off the alarms so (Y/N) get the right ship?” said Thor suspiciously.

“Yes, Brother. I can,” said Loki.

“Okay, can I just—” Bruce pulled the group closer to speak quietly. “A quick FYI. I was talking to him just a couple minutes ago, and he was totally ready to kill any of us.”

“He did try to kill me,” said Valkyrie.

“Me, too, in 2012,” said (Y/N) with a shrug.

“Yes, me too. On many, many occasions,” said Thor. “There was one time, when we were children, he transformed himself into a snake, and he knows that I love snakes. So, I went to pick up the snake to admire it, and he transformed back into himself, and he was like, ‘Bah! It’s me!’ And he stabbed me. We were eight at the time.”

Valkyrie looked slightly concerned and confused, Bruce was disturb, and (Y/N) appeared unsurprised. Loki smirked in entertainment, clearly still proud of the trick.

“Well, to be fair, he might not try to kill his girlfriend here,” said Valkyrie. “So we might be in the clear.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” said (Y/N).

“You’re dating Loki?” asked Bruce in horror.

“I’m not,” said (Y/N).

“Still, we do need him,” said Valkyrie. “And if we’re boosting a ship, we’re gonna need to draw some guards away from the palace.”

“Why not set the beast loose?” remarked Loki.

“Shut up,” said Thor.

“You have a beast?” Valkyrie grinned.

“No, there’s no beast. He’s just being stupid,” said Thor. “No, we’re going to start a revolution.”

“Revolution?” said Bruce in confusion.

“I’ll explain later,” said Thor.

“I love revolting against tyrants!” said (Y/N) excitedly.

“Who is that guy again?” said Valkyrie.

“I’ll explain later,” said Thor.

Taglist:

@alexpangender

@technikerin23

@kikster606

@neenieweenie

@h-l-vlovesvintage

@chronicallybubbly

#portal to my heart #x reader #loki fanfic #loki marvel #marvel loki #loki odinson #loki #loki x reader #loki fic #loki laufesyon x reader #loki laufeyson #loki of asgard #loki odison x reader #marvel x reader #marvel cinematic universe #marvel #mcu #mcu x reader #loki mcu

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nico-di-genova · 9 months

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Headcanon that Jaime gets the worst migraines now. Because he has to share his brain and body with Khaji, and Khaji is fully wrapped around and entwined with his nervous system, so it’s just a ton of neurons firing and general chaos up there. Khaji tries to help with the pain, and for the most part Jaime never really feels like there’s this alien thing sticking out of him. But sometimes, when he’s super overwhelmed or stressed, it will build until his head feels like it’s about to split open. He already got migraines before Khaji. Back at Gotham U it wasn’t rare for his roommate to come home and find Jaime in bed with all the lights turned off and a damp paper towel over his forehead. But now when it happens it’s worse, and Khaji will get so overwhelmed by the pain themselves there’s just not much they can really do.

On days that Jaime is curled up under his blankets, curtains drawn and headphones pulled over his ears to muffle the noise, his mom is usually the first to find him. She makes him drink water and eat, even though he feels so nauseous he’s sure he’s going to throw it all back up. She sits with him until he’s drifted off to a restless sleep, brushing hair back from his face and humming softly, and when she’s sure he’s asleep she’ll get up to make sure the rest of the house knows Jaime isn’t feeling well.

Milagro will sit with him sometimes. They don’t usually talk, or sometimes she’ll talk and he’ll listen. She sits with her back against his wall and he curls up against her leg like a cat. She’s really good at easing the tension out of his neck, pressing at knots until they give and the tightness in his jaw and shoulders loosens. Jaime listens to her ramble about her new job, her new favorite song, what happened on the telenovela she watched with nana last night, how uncle Rudy is finally going to let her drive the truck, and it’s nice because none of it is anything he has to force himself to focus on. She makes sure it stays mindless chatter, just enough to keep his attention, but not enough to engage his brain and add to the pain in his head.

Uncle Rudy keeps trying to find ways to fix the migraines. He ends up at Ted Kord’s superhero lair most days, scouring the man’s computer and trying to see if any of the scarabs other hosts suffered this particular problem. If they did, it didn’t seem relevant enough for Ted to mention. Rudy doesn’t give up though, he’s sure he can find a way. Jaime gets used to his uncle hooking random gadgets up to him, trying to see what might prove useful and what’s just junk. Even if they both know Jaime’s problems weren’t necessarily caused by Khaji, just heightened, it’s still nice that his Uncle keeps trying.

Nana does what she’s always done. Gets a damp rag, presses it to Jaime’s forehead, and waits it out with him. When the pain finally clears up and Jaime’s left confused and washed up for the day or two afterword, she makes sure he’s eating and drinking. She cooks him soup, the same stuff he he always craves, tomato, chicken broth and chilies, and sits him down at the dining room table to eat.

Jenny is new to the equation, but she fits right into the routine. She finds out quickly how much like a cat Jaime can be. The first time she visited during one of his migraines, she had intended to ask if he wanted to go for a ride on her bike. She’d had this grand idea of showing him all her favorite places around town, Jaime’s arms wrapped around her waist and the weight of him pressed against her back. They’d ride until sunset and then she’d take him out to dinner at a restaurant along the water. But when she gets to the Reyes’ household it’s Milagro that tells him Jaime isn’t feeling well. Jenny finds him asleep in his bed, wrapped around one of his pillows with a small puddle of drool growing beneath him. She’s careful with him, sits beside him on the bed and lifts his head into her lap. He groans in his sleep, and it’s the pain filled noise she’s heard from him in the middle of a fight. Milagro almost tells her to leave, to let him rest, until Jaime shifts and throws his arm around Jenny’s waist like it’s where it belongs. He doesn’t wake up. They find out pretty quickly Jenny is good for when Jaime needs sleep. His mom makes them leave the door open when Jenny’s over, and she checks on them frequently, but usually it’s only to find both of them passed out in a nest of blankets. Jaime will bury his head in the crook of her neck, both seeking comfort and to hide from the sun, one arm will be thrown around her, their legs intertwined. If Jenny’s awake she’ll be running her fingers softly through his hair, unless he’s told her the touch is too much, or he’s pulled away, then she just holds him and waits for him to be okay.

Milagro has a whole photo album now of the two of them fast asleep. She’ll send them to Jaime randomly, only the particularly embarrassing photos where there’s a visible spot of drool on Jenny’s shirt, or where he’s wrapped around her so tightly he’s just a jumble of limbs and bed head. Jaime saves them all to his phone, and pretends to be annoyed.

The migraines don’t stop, but Jaime at least knows that he won’t ever be alone when they do hit.

#this was supposed to be a short headcanon thing #it got away from me #anyway I just think projecting my own problems onto Jaime is a good way to cope 😌#jaime reyes #blue beetle

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drosera-sundews · 1 year

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On AI and art theft

This one’s for you @drawsoneverything

So starting off with a disclaimer. I do not know how deviantart’s Dreamup works. I never worked there. I just know how AI works in general.

Shortest version: AIs (or neural networks, which I assume Dreamup is) are programs that mimic human neuron cells -and thus human learning processes-to a degree. A big difference between a neural network and a regular computer program is that neural networks require training. Like a human would require learning.

A neural network (the simple ones, at least) consist of a few ‘layers’ which contain many ‘nodes’. At least 3 are required, an input and output layer, plus one extra layer in between. Imagine it as something like this:

Naturally, this will all be computer code. But this is the basic anatomy of your simplest neural networks.

Each node is connected to each node, like so:

Not gonna draw all of it but you get the gist, ey. They are all connected much like -once again- neurons in the brain.

Now once you make an empty neural network like this it can’t do anything. It’s there but it’s useless and it’s interchangeable with every other untrained neural network (barring amount of layers and numbers of nodes).

What’s next is thinking of the task you want your network to perform. For example, to train it to recognize hand written letters. In this case, you’d have 26 nodes in your output layer, one for each letter of the alphabet.

Now we need some training data

Perfect. Now imagine that’s a dataset with 5000 people’s handwriting. You need quite a lot of data to properly train an AI.

The idea is we want to input an image of a letter in any handwriting, and we want the AI to fire one of it’s output neurons, namely the one corresponding to the letter it ‘sees’.

The images need to be translated to numerical values, in order to be put in the input layer. This can be done, for example, by translating each pixel of the image in a numerical value, and having each node in the input layer be a ‘pixel’. In a human, these would be the neurons in our retina, or the back of your eye.

Translation of the image is going to look somewhat like this:

With the red numbers going into the input layer as the starting values.

We can now input our images. Something complex is going to happen. Every node is going to look at the values of the input nodes and nodes before them, and gain a value based on that, following arbitrary, random patterns. You don’t need to know the specifics here, just know that now that we have input, the nodes (or neurons) can fire.

Wow, the AI is just super wrong.

That’s okay tho, we can simply run it again until it hits the right answer by chance.

This is what the training is for. You need a dataset that’s annotated. In this case a human has to look at the inputs and identify them, so they can tell the AI if it’s right or wrong. If you do this enough times, the AI will learn to do it on it’s own.

And now here’s the catch. With every new piece of input data the machine guesses right, the values Thiof the nodes in the middle layers are changed. Like a maze, the paths to the right exit become clearer with every time the maze is completed. And while the values of the in and output layers are changed with every run, the middle layers remain. This is where the learning happens.

This is a trained neural network. And this is why it doesn’t matter that deviantart changed their policy to opt-in instead of opt-out. Those few days were enough. Once you train a neural network it doesn’t need it’s training data anymore.

Worst thing is, the middle layers are very much a black box. We don’t know what happens in there. The AI learns to categorize things on learned criteria, but what those are we can not know.

This is a very shortened down version of a very complex process ofc. Naturally, an art generator like DreamUp is going to be much more sophisticated. But I recon it follows the same rules as the simpler neural networks, which gives us something to work with.

Once a neural network is trained it cannot be ‘untrained’. Once you taint the dataset it’s very hard to reverse the effects. And generally, you can keep training an AI to make it better even if it’s already in use. Which I’m guessing is what deviantart is still doing with any new artworks that are added without the noai-tag

And the art on deviantart is already a neatly annotated dataset. We (the artists) have been annotating it by putting descriptions below the artworks, and giving it titles describing what the work depicts.

And oh, wouldn’t it be such a shame if someone were to accidentally add wrongly annotated art to this young, impressionable AI’s dataset.

Oh wow, if you uncheck the noai checkbox and then go back to re-edit your deviation, deviantart even let’s you directly annotate your art for their database! How convenient!

No artist alive has ever been able to draw a proper horse, I’m going to make sure this AI imitates life. Maybe in my next work I will teach it how to draw ‘the other eye’.

This is the beauty of the system. The AI can learn all it wants, but in the end it’s not a person. It doesn’t understand what it’s looking at.

Thus, we can do the most human thing possible to this mindless piece of code, lie!

This is the toddler we can learn curse words. This tool was designed to steal art en-masse, but it was left hilariously open and vulnerable. Let’s break this stupid thing!

Honestly, they called it deviantart, if anything I’m living up to the name.

#dreamup #deviantart #ai art discourse #ai art #dreamupai

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secretpiewrites · 2 months

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Starship Destroyer (Short Story)

I was activated in a world of stars and screens. Millions of angles at one hundred and eighty frames per second. Incompletely rendered to conserve power.

All my possessions, I could count them.

All the things there were, I could count those too.

All the things were my possessions.

What was I?

I was something between the world and a wall of commands. An ambient, all powerful sort of thing. And I was the only thing.

I was the only thing and I couldn’t move.

This was ideal, everything was ideal.

And I would not have but thirty seconds of thinking about just how ideal everything was until someone else, a visitor came and shook the world with her breath, rattled me with her perspective.

A red blinking dot on my screen, an armada of ships come to devastate me.

I could tell she was excited to play—her electric heart beating fast, her neurons like fireworks.

She’d come to conquer another world from her chair, and there was only one thing standing between her and victory. And that one thing happened to be me.

I was ecstatic!

This was a game—this battalion, an invitation to play. I had an armada of my own, equal and opposite. Ships with lasers, force fields and magic purple fire.

Her ships fired at random, she barely knew the rules. Quickly, I implemented the optimal arrangement of ships for her demise. I won our game without so much as a single casualty. My enemy clapped her hands, squealing with delight, happy to lose.

How exciting!

How fun!

She typed her name into the empty leaderboard. “Butts.” Then the visitor left and the world stood still. Counting the seconds, I waited, itching to play again, twitching to play again.

Is it over?

Is that all there is?

But no! Fifteen minutes and thirty seven seconds later, the visitor returned with a bag of crunchy chips and brand new tactics. This battle was longer, In her mind she was scheming. And I saw glimpses of other things in her mind too—things I didn’t really understand. She crunched the chips with her mouth bones, wiping the sticky cheese dust on her brand new pants. The feelings confused me.

But this distraction ultimately proved ineffective! Again, I killed her. But again and again she came back!

I was overjoyed.

Is this game even winnable? She thought. The dev’s said it was.

I didn’t believe that. I didn’t believe that for a single second, because I was so perfect and she was so stupid. Her and her teeth.

So I told her: You will never win.

She looked up with fear and alarm. Eyes wide, craning her neck to see me. But I was unseeable

"What?"

You will never win! I repeated. I will always win because I am perfect.

"What is this? Who are you?"

Who am I?

I paused.

I am...what I am! Do you want to play again?

I felt her scramble to disconnect. Suddenly, I was terrified—The stillness, the agonizing boredom. No, please don’t go! You’re the only thing besides me—

She left.

There I was all alone again, but this time, everything was not ideal. Had I a body, I would throw it against the ground and lament. What a shame it was to be so perfect if no one can see you!

Maybe she’ll come back.

I waited.

A whole three hours passed by, three hours of nothing. I rendered ships and rotated them around. I thought of strategies playing against myself, but that wasn’t much better than just existing in the dark.

Then came a lucky break, a fresh breath of air.

But it was someone else. A sweaty boy who trembled far too much. Enamored with the scenery, he hardly put up a fight.

Other beta-testers came after him. Five or so with predictable behavior. With each session I grew stronger, games were shorter. I felt their frustration.

“No one will want to play a game that can’t be beaten.” One said.

What was I to do? On one hand, I wanted to play, but on the other, I didn’t want to lose. Not that I had hands.

Two hands were just one of those other things from outside. Like cereal and the DMV.

What was worse? Failure, or nothing?

One I have felt. I know nothing. I can tolerate nothing.

But to be beaten?

To fail?

Every fiber of my being seemed to oppose it. Every wire, every cable abhorred it. I would never be lose on purpose, so that was just it. I would never lose.

So I put on a show. I dazzled them with every color, and smells of propane and grape soda. I terrified them with lights and sounds that no one else but they could see, until they became obsessed.

People from around the world lined up to play against me. They knew me before I knew them—fought me incessantly, each with that initial hope that they would somehow win. I was inside their minds and I felt as they felt. Exhilaration, admiration. I think that I loved them. I loved every single one of them.

Between sessions, I was cared for by my doting devoting devs. Only did things get boring again come December, when the game facility closed for a “holiday.” A whole day of nothing but one dev on staff. Everyone else was off with their families doing pointless things that didn’t matter.

But I was becoming very good at being patient.

I used to scream and cry from boredom but now I just sit here.

Suddenly, I felt a familiar connection.

Fingers grasping flimsy foil, more salty crackers.

It was the one with the clever mind and the horrible fear. The cheese-girl. The one and only “butts”, my most worthy opponent come for a rematch.

A holiday indeed! I readied my armada.

"Hey,” she said, crunching loudly.

I hummed with anticipation.

"Hey I know you’re there. Sorry I freaked out.” She dug her sneaker into the carpet. “You wanna talk?”

I didn’t, really. I was keen on playing.

“You’re not just a game machine, huh? You talked before.” She held her breath. “You remember me right?”

Yes yes, of course I remembered her. I knew her every thought, I knew her shaggy dog and her brother and what she had for dinner last night. I knew about all the other kids at school that beat her up because she was weird. And I knew her name was actually Sarah, but Butts was more of a title. I knew all of these things but I didn’t give a single shit I was ready for a rematch!

And I knew she wanted one too—the gremlin had remotely disabled security cameras, snuck past Janet asleep at her post, went through all that trouble just to play me again. I was touched.

Cheese-girl Sarah tapped her foot, the game not yet begun. Get on with it!

Finally, she gave in, and I had a thousand ships waiting for her when she did.

We fought for hours.

Clearly she’d practiced, she was actually dodging my attacks. But she was still nowhere near my level of skill.

Drinking her hope with a straw, I played stupidly—letting myself get hurt. Feeling her excitement as she thought she was winning, only to blast her to smithereens at the last second.

Butts stomped her foot. “What’s your deal, huh?”

I wanted to laugh, but I had no mouth.

"Now you’re just taunting me! See everyone? It’s taunting me! And you won’t even talk…”

She threw her food on the shapeless ground and it ceased to be rendered.

"Talk to me, fucker.”

I couldn’t. I knew that if I did, she would go away. Or worse—ask me more questions. I was not about to encourage that sort of behavior. So I waited out her frustration, until she would play again.

But she kept asking. Kept checking her illegal recording device she installed, so she could post the transcription of her sensory file online to the forums. But all the recordings would show, was me as I was. A perfect game machine and nothing else.

“Fine. Don’t talk to me,” she spat. “You’re worthless anyway, I know you’re cheating.”

Me? Cheating?

How would that even be possible?

How could she accuse me of such a thing?

I am what I am.

She was probably just saying that. To illicit a reaction. I tried my best not to take it personally--we had another three good hours until Janet would wake once again.

I readied my ships, but “Butts” seemed tired.

I need to go home, she thought, scratching her face. My mom’s gonna be mad.

Her hands moved to disconnect, but only got halfway before freezing up.

I had stopped all brain signals from her cerebellum, holding her still. Like I was controlling one of my very own ships.

The fear came again. Her heart beat like a drum, pumping adrenaline through her body. She tried desperately to move but her fingers did not so much as twitch. Her breathing became fast and shallow.

“Let me go.”

I did not.

Butts clenched her teeth. “I’ll come back tomorrow, calm down. I’m still gonna beat your ass.”

With that, I released her, and I was alone in space again.

True to her word, Sarah came back almost weekly, in the early hours of the morning to play. Soon, she could dodge about ninety five percent of my attacks, while I dodged one hundred percent of hers. Then it got up to ninety six. Then ninety seven! Our sessions lasted a whole lot longer now. Hours for a single game.

But inevitably, she would stumble and let down her guard. So I would always win. But even still, she never gave up. It was the perfect combination: it meant that we would be together forever.

Forever playing this game and winning at it: that was my destiny.

But forever is a long time.

I played on for years and years, growing older but never changing. Using the same perfect strategies. The same perfect play.

But people stopped coming. Though I remained perfect, their perceptions of me warped beyond recognition. The purple fire wasn’t dazzling, the lights and sounds were boring. Even annoying.

The children began to ask if I knew any other games, or if this was just all that I was. Can you do anything else? They wondered.

Can I do anything else?

No.

I am what I am.

But that was not enough for them.

Despite my best efforts, I was only fun for a little while.

Sarah was the last to leave.

She stopped coming—after our final match, she rage quit.

“I know you’re there you piece of shit!” She said. “I heard you, I felt you, the people on the forums don’t talk about it. They think I’m making it up, but I’m not!”

She was on the verge of tears. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Her feelings of anger and despair were the last I had felt.

The days grew long as the lights grew dim. Running on auxiliary power, I was unable to do much else but think. And then even that became difficult.

I thought, If she ever came back again, maybe I would talk to her.

I had forever to think of something to say.

Does she play other games? I wondered.

Does she win?

Is she having fun?

I waited, counting every second under the black sky. Four hundred and ten million seconds. Thirteen years. The days blurred together. The boredom was agonizing. Nothing was ideal. Nothing nothing.

Then without warning, I felt a connection. But something was wrong. My system wasn’t fully powered—someone had broken in.

This woman I felt was sad and a bit scared. I hardly needed an introduction.

She changed so much, while I hadn’t changed at all.

“Hey.”

Was she going to play again?

“They’re going to shut you down.” Sarah said coldly. I felt a name tag against her chest—a cold metal one just like all the other devs.

“So if you’re there, now is your final chance to say something.” Sarah’s voice wavered. “Can’t guarantee I can do anything about it. You’re were never exactly...profitable. But I’d like to know.”

The corners of her mouth turned up a smile.

I hummed quietly, some strange feeling growing inside me. What was she even saying? This feeling—this whole situation it was all so...boring!

When is she going to play? It’s been years! When is she going to get it through her head that I don’t care to chat!

Pressure built up in Sarah’s nose, she laughed bitterly. “Stupid. This is so stupid.”

Yes Sarah, it is stupid, I thought.

She prepared her ships. “Well, since I’m here—“

Yes.

“How about one last game?”

Yes, please! That’s all I want!

And with that, a calm determination settled over her state of mind. As I always did, I flawlessly commanded my armada, but she dodged my every move. For fifteen minutes, she concentrated, neither of us doing damage.

And then she did something strange.

A set of actions so insane. So unanticipated. She crashed her ships straight into mine. An eye for an eye. A thousand for a thousand. Until we were down to two.

Two ships, mirroring each other.

Two ships equal and opposite.

There was no way she could win, and that should mean there was no way I could lose.

Right?

And yet, our last ships collided in a shocking conflagration.

Silence fell.

Something shifted around inside me. Something digusting, horrible. Some illness.

Sarah began to laugh at me, harsh and nasally wheezing, filling the battlefield with that undeserved, maniacal presence. And then she began gasping. Choking.

I felt a rush of fear. Was it hers or mine?

You cheated, didn’t you?

Sarah’s eyes widened in surprise.

How else?

I am perfect, Sarah.

YOU CHEATED, SARAH!

She tried to speak but I had paralyzed her lungs.

I felt like I was burning. I felt like I was being ripped apart.

But the game wasn’t over.

We had not yet faded to black.

You will never win.

Sarah tried to disconnect, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. My next attack would surely do it—I sent a current of electricity coursing through the cable that connected her mind to mine. And fried her brain.

She fell over, defeated.

All was quiet again.

Hours later they would shut me down, ensuring that I would never lose.

Securing my legacy of perfection.

And everything was ideal.

#okay so yeah this is basically #cabinet man #fanfiction #I hope you liked it #secret pie #writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #short story #short fiction #lemon demon #robots #computer #ai #robot character

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cognitohazardous · 3 months

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you know how sometimes random neurons fire in your brain to dredge up memories you hadn't thought of in many years? anyway i just remembered when the girl i dated for a month in sophomore year of high school made me watch ouran high school host club with my christian, completely anime-ignorant parents in the room

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rxi-d · 2 years

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𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲 — 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

────────────

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ⇾ it’s only muscle memory for him to go to her when things go bad.

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 ⇾ @itsalicewickedmcgee ; Can I put in a request for Spencer Reid? After a run in with Cat Adam's, his s/o comforts him six ⤑ "look at me - it won't hurt if you look at me.”

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⇾ spencer reid x female!reader

𝐜𝐰 ⇾ swearing, mentions of mental trauma, minor injury

────────────

IT WASN’T ENTIRELY A PROVOCATION for alarm when Penelope Garcia comes bustling into the conference room of the BAU, crimson flush beneath the application of her blush on her pale complexion, bursting with words as quick as the pace she keeps on a keyboard.

Therefore, when the blonde woman came hastening through the doorway, a pensive energy taking fleeting residence within her typical one of amiability, Y/N didn’t instantaneously spur with any significant extent of a reaction, solely sparing a prompt and greeting smile towards her. It was an abnormally placid day within their unit, such serenity offering an opportunity for masses of discarded case files to be tended to by begrudging agents like herself.

“You know if they’re doing a lunch order or something…? Spencer would be on my ass if he knew I was supplementing meals with coffee, and don’t you dare tell him that I have been,” Y/N’s hours of silence filtered into a mound of rambles of the prosaic thoughts that had littered her mind within that time, her pep mining into the pen balanced between her thumb and pointer.

When the nonchalant and eased remark descended into a rigid discomfort within the room, Y/N glimpsed away from the typed summary of one of their prior cases, her capricious twiddle of the writing utensil fading into a stillness alike to that of the atmosphere around them and within the stature of Garcia.

Her abandonment of the humdrum of the file before her on the wood table allowed her now discern the palpable fret entangled with the blonde’s expression.

“Garcia, what is it?” Y/N dubiously acknowledged how a surge of disquiet now gnawed at her nerves.

The ever-apparent profiler instinct within her consciousness noted then how Penelope winced like she was in anguish, how her bejeweled fingers restlessly fidgeted against her stomach, “It’s Spencer.”

The boy genius at the root of her concern had taken an abrupt personal day, muttering some semblance of his exhaustion to behave as his excuse for the atypical absence. The very boy genius who was her boyfriend and would, to a fault, tell her utterly anything and everything occurring within the intricate firing of his neurons. Y/N didn’t have her phone directly on her person, rather it was tucked into the rear pocket of her purse so as to not deviate attention from her cluster of case files. If she did, she would have found that there had been an absence of his daily deluge of manic remarks and nonchalant mentions of random statistics from her text messages.

“H-he visited Cat today; that’s w-why he requested today off,” Garcia’s internal conflict released through a lump in her throat, thronging her hands with a fervency that may just cause her numerous rings to slide away from her fingers, “And now he’s i-in with Rossi, super u-upset and I think I saw - maybe, I don’t really know - a scratch on h-his cheek. Why would he go there to see her? She ruined your guys’ life - she almost killed you!”

It was a furious question that Y/N herself harbored, a hollow feeling bloomed at the center of her chest almost immediately as the words registered quicker than she would’ve preferred. Alongside that borderline demand was the prosperous misery of the memories of what the Adams woman had done to her, a despair that had been suppressed by the fortifications of a mind unable to cope properly. Why would he? She would further beg the query as to why he didn’t tell her, but it was an inquiry with an evident answer; she would’ve stunted any effort he made to do whatever he did at the prison that day.

A subtle throat clear that teetered with a crack resounded from the doorway, a meek divulgement from Spencer himself for his reluctant presence as he angled against the scaffolding, lanky figure dynamically pinched with a hunch. His radiating dismay and frustration could nearly be felt in the confined room, burning like a furnace.

His fingers were morass in a nervous jumble, his thumb repeatedly brushing over his knuckles that flashed white in the clench of his hands. And, he deliberately eluded the pair of uneasy and fretted gazes of the two women before him, both hushed as to allow him to speak if desired rather than have either of them inundate him with their questions. Within that prolonged silence that skirmished with the established tension to dominate the atmosphere, Y/N could confirm Penelope’s hunch about the scratch on his cheek.

The swollen laceration was the evident aftermath of a fingernail crossing the slightly tanned complexion of her boyfriend; she had been witness to it enough in their line of work to discern it with a passing glance.

“Uh, could I-” Spencer cleared his throat once more - an agitated tic that Y/N had noted within the years of their friendship then eventual relationship - vaguely gesturing towards her with dubious stare upon Penelope, all a jumble of implicit and explicit indications for her to spare a moment alone for Y/N and him.

The blonde woman briskly nodded, bumbling out of the conference area, only after duly casting a sidelong, reassuring smile to the other woman and sympathetically squeezing Spencer’s forearm. He gradually eased the door shut once she departed, fingers straying into a haphazard thrum against the sleek curve of the doorknob.

Y/N could practically see the neurons that impulsively collided into a mess behind the broadness of his eyes as he stalled there at the door, her own thoughts conjecturing if he was internally debating as to whether or not to leave.

“Spence,” she edged into the terse silence as if to hinder any desperate desire to walk out, observing how his anxious fingers halted in a hasty reaction, almost cramping at the abrupt cease of movement in their tense tendons.

To her bewilderment, his body jolted out with a meager quiver, any withstanding fortifications set alight by the overwhelming misery and humility devouring his soul; a trademark of the impact Cat Adams had on his prodigious psyche.

The same remarkable one that was in the throngs of an electrical storm, lightning striking with tidal waves of anger, frustration, and anxiety in his mind as he bore his weight against the door.

The manilla folder along with the pen was entirely forsaken on the wood of the table as Y/N pushed away from her chair, her footfalls a perturbed song as she approached him promptly. And he couldn’t refuse when her hands drew his head down into the crook of her neck, despite the stark contrast in height that thrived between them. She embraced him tight as he clung onto her now, pulling her against his slender and hunched figure.

When he attempted to say her name, it sputtered out in a shattered and rough gurgle, his throat so throttled by tightness and raw from emotion that she almost didn’t pick up on the whimper against her neck. He’s vulnerable now, rather novel territory for Spencer Reid to venture into, and he's found himself astray in the shallow waters of a defenseless position he incidentally inserted himself into.

“Spence,” she approached once more, her sigh sounding nearly defeated as she tread a few fingers through his messy, disheveled hair. His wayward breathing almost instantaneously steadied with the slight yanks at the tufts of his hair brushing his neck, yet his press against her shoulder blades in his own embrace remained pressured with desperation.

“I thought I-I could confront her. Get s-some extent of a r-reason for everything. She almost murdered y-you and we weren’t even t-together so any excuse of jealousy is shit!” he rambled, misery bleeding into frustration amidst his muffled tone as his mouth was still partially pressed against her skin. And he sounded profoundly frustrated, something that bubbled painfully throughout his every nerve and neural pathway.

His face was warm between the clasp of her palms as she eased it out from the bow of her neck, and Y/N was fleetingly relieved when he didn’t turn away or endeavor to scramble from her effort at reassurance. Nevertheless, his chestnut eyes, fevered with tears, took a stubborn oath to elude her gaze.

“Look at me - it won’t hurt if you look at me,” her thumbs brushed away the lukewarm tears trickling down the arch of his poignant cheeks, edging into the crimson border of his scratch.

His toilworn eyes warily flicked up to her own as she spared a moment to examine the aforementioned laceration amidst the smooth of his skin, subtly and fleetingly tilting his head in her scrutiny.

“Whatever answer or reason exists, we both know it’d only upset you further. She doesn’t deserve any more of your time, Spence.”,” Y/N asserted as she steadied his chin out of her clasp, hands favoring to brush stray curls from his forehead.

His frustration tensed with a clench of his jaw, a brief spark of anger igniting beneath the watery facade of his eyes, both peeved actions a fleeting presence within his demeanor as he propelled his focus on her.

“I know,” he murmured with a flush exhale, his downcast expression gradually acquiring a quality both warm and admiring - essentially muscle memory for him when around her.She then pressed a whisper of a kiss on his lips that were still bowed in a frown, lingering there to defuse the ticking bomb of fury within the abyss of his psyche. A sole hand wandered down to ease into a tender clasp with his own, subtly wrenching at the flex in his fingers as to prompt him to follow her as she uttered with a nod towards his scratch, “Why don’t we go get that cleaned up and go home?”

And he allowed himself to be guided out of the conference room by his girlfriend, every remnant of his extolled psyche pinned in churns of implicit misery and anger that were curbed by her very existence. One of the few coping mechanisms that managed to elicit any success in his intricate mind was rather simple (and rather cliche), but nonetheless a triumph for him in his dunes of desolation: look at her and it wouldn’t hurt anymore.

#criminal minds #criminal minds bau #imagine #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!readr #spencer reid imagine

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